Hurts Like Heaven
by mysteroo
Summary: One Christmas, Hanna's parents had sat him down. In crayon, he drew a picture, proclaiming it to be his "dream chrystmas tree". Every December after, they'd gone looking for Hanna's perfect tree. However, after his parent's death the dream tree died too.


Hanna Falk Cross had never wanted to be a Paranormal Investigator. He had never wanted to bear witness to malevolent spirits, deal with murderous vampires, or be the cause of runes-gone-awry. He had never wanted to be face up on Worth's dirty lab bench, squinting up into the too-bright-light hovering above him whilst the cold bite of steel pressed into his back and seeped through his bones; the "Doctor" punching even colder metal staples through his skin to keep a mismatched wound on his chest from bursting open. And yet, experience had changed him. Experience - or fate - had pushed him off the path of chimera and into the awaiting arms of the supernatural world.

In his younger years he had slept under a mobile of plush stars and moons, the fabric shapes fluttering above his head as his plump hands reached out to grab at them. They were always too far above him, of course, just out of reach. Yet still he dreamed of the whirling galaxies and star-flung skies with child-like innocence and interest, devoting hours of his childhood drawing rockets blasting off into space, himself and his family held safely within the body of the craft.

His life had been sheltered, free from harm, for many years, surrounded only by the soft confines of love and protection that this parents swathed him in; the tendrils wrapping around his flesh and seeping through his bones. He couldn't remember much about them save a few faded memories and their faces now, and the latter was only thanks to a folded picture of the three of them, kept by his beside. It painted their image in his mind with muted colours, sunspots and over exposure speckling the photograph and bleeding through to mirror the gaps in his memory. His mother was beautiful; doting, with kindly eyes and a pale complexion save a dusting of freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks. Red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall in loose curls, her delicate features framed with a fringe of amber, her lips quirked in a smile.  
>His father was taller, with a mop of dark brown hair and thick glasses - the latter of which he had passed down to his son, as well as the startlingly blue eyes. He seemed sterner, Hanna often thought as he ran his fingers over the glass frame, thumb caressing each of their cheeks in turn in a desperate bid to recall the feel of their flesh under his; their heartbeat singing beneath their skin, to match them with snatches of his childhood memories.<p>

One Christmas, when his parents were busy decorating the apartment with strips of light and scented strings of orange and cinnamon - something Hanna had been unable to help with at four years old due to tiny hands and a lack of height - they had sat him down with a glass of milk and a cookie and smiled dotingly down upon him from light strewn ladders, the crackling of the fire licking across their features and wrapping the house in heat as he drew them a Christmas tree in tacky crayon, proclaiming it with shaky, backwards handwriting (complete with spelling mistakes) to be his "dream chrystmas tree".

Every December after that, the three of them had gone wandering around the city wrapped up in winter coats, thick scarves bunched about their throats and gloves sheltering their fingers as they went looking for Hanna's perfect tree.

"What about this one, honey?" His mother would ask, pointing to one with a smile on her lips, her hair fluttering in the breeze as the wind teased it out with cold fingers.  
>"It's not... bushy enough, or green enough, or <em>tall<em> enough," the young boy would respond, scratching his head and peering over the top of his picture to inspect the insufficient pine. "It's got to look just like my picture!" So they'd wander off again, around the tree lot, Hanna's face set in a frown as he tramped around in the snow, boots crunching the powdered white beneath him. After a while, of course, his father would lose patience and Hanna's toes would go numb in his wellingtons, his nose and cheeks stained pink from the harsh bite of the wind, and they'd settle for the next tree they saw. It was never perfect, but it did as it was supposed to; to stand tall and proud, to be decorated and loved.

And it was the same every year, even as Hanna grew from four years old to fourteen years old; his interest in the stars waning as the seed of the paranormal was planted. However, after his parent's death the dream tree died too; the paper became yellow and crumpled, the picture fading just like his memories.  
>He began to dread Christmas; he had nobody around to help him search for a tree - the perfect tree - or decorate the apartment, or even give gifts to. He had no hope of getting it right, no family or friends to turn to save Doctor Luce Worth, and even then the grouchy Australian preferred to spend the holiday with several very good friends that went by the names of Smirnoff, Jack Daniels and the Gosling Brothers (Ltd) than with the over-active ginger kid.<p>

And then Galahad had arrived and flipped everything right side up; he became the one constant in Hanna's inconsistent, strange little world. It had been a crisp autumn day when the undead man had knocked on the door. The birds were peaking and falling, riding along on the breeze as the cars trawled past, Hanna watching them from what he and Rohan later referred to as "the tiniest window in existence" as the passengers gulped down enough coffee to exceed the recommended guideline amount, and probably give them a caffeine addiction for life.

Of course, having a partner(-in-crime, according to Lamont - the back-alley delivery man on first name terms with Worth), made the holidays a little easier - there was hubbub in their tiny apartment as they decorated the walls with paper snowflakes and tinsel, wrapping and exchanging gifts, with Leonardo cooking happily whilst they sang along to the Christmas carols and the sound of Freddie Mercury's voice as they burst from the speakers on Hanna's battered laptop and hung in the air around them.

"We haven't got a tree," the elder man had pointed out, frowning gently as he turned to the red-head. "Do you want to go and get one?" Hanna's face crumpled, and he sank onto the couch, wishing the squashy fabric could swallow him up as he shook his head back and forth, curls bouncing about his temples.

"No.. Please, William," he responded, gulping softly before looing up, his bright blue eyes swimming with tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks and tumble earthwards. With shaking hands, he pulled out his wallet, unfolding the piece of paper, his voice catching in his throat as memories rushed back. After several minutes composing himself, Hanna passed the rumpled, yellowing sheaf to his partner, who tucked it into a pocket.

"I... I drew this picture when I was 4 years old. Mom and Dad could never find a tree just like it and I kept.. hoping that one year they'd find it with me, Laurence.. that we'd get the dream christmas tree. But t-they… passed away before we ever got the chance to. And when they died all my hopes of finding the tree died too... I've been dreading getting a tree this year, just like I have every year. I don't want one."

Sitting quietly, Montgomery wrapped an arm about Hanna's shoulders, letting him bury his head into the soft cotton of his orange shirt as he felt his friend come apart beside him, Hanna's walls breaking down as fat tears stained the shirt separating their skin darker. They sat like that, the taller man holding his friend as he cried, until Hanna looked up and offered him a watery smile.  
>"S-Sorry, Rohan," he mumbled, wiping his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand before switching topic suddenly. "W-Weren't you and Toni going Christmas shopping today?"<p>

The dead man nodded, concern lacing his face. "Yes, we were. I'm supposed to meet her soon, actually. But if you're not okay, I can always wait and go tomorrow." Hanna flapped his hand in dismissal and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"No, I'm.. I'm fine. You go and make sure you get me something _awesome_!"

Thomas smiled gently, laying a hand on Hanna's shoulder and watching him carefully for a few minutes, before pulling on his coat and gloves. "If you set the kitchen on fire or something, call 911 and then call Toni or me." He shot Hanna another smile over his shoulder and was out the door in a whirl of brown, leaving his companion alone with his memories.

Once Ulysses was gone, Hanna wandered around as if in a daydream, watching cartoons on their stolen cable through unfocussed eyes; his kneesdrawn up to his chest, chin resting atop the mountains of his legs as the screen flickered with far-away colours - bright and false - casting shadows across his face and throwing darkness across the quiet apartment, the clock on the wall counting down every second and echoing.  
>After a while, he began to doze, tears drying on his cheeks as his brain shut down, the cogs in his head slowing. His imagination fired up to propel him into another world, one haunted with spindle-like fingers that clutched at his chest, popping the staples away and peeling back the skin to reveal nothing but an empty, hollow shell of a boy, the blackness seeping out from the empty cavity to wrap its tentacles around him and pull him down into oblivion with screams ringing in his ears.<p>

And then, with the slam of a door somewhere in the distance, it all stopped, his body jerking as his eyes flew open, his prepherial vision rippling with the image of Damien, a very tall green man, holding up a very tall green object wrapped up in cobwebs of thin white plastic strips that cross-crossed along the length.

Hanna stared blankly at it for a few minutes before a frown creased his brow. "I.. I said no, Fernando!" He cried out, grimacing and flying up from his foetus position on the couch. The taller man held a hand out in a stopping motion, his eyes reassuring before he reached inside his coat pocket. Clutched within his leather covered fingers was Hanna's drawing.

"Just let me finish, Hanna," he said quietly, his voice soft; spider-spun silk that floated through the air and stuffed themselves inside the whorls of his partner's ears as he held out the crumpled picture. "Pass me those scissors. The ones on the table - yes, those ones.. thank you - close your eyes and hold the paper up in front of you. When I say "Operation Christmas" I want you to lower your drawing, okay?"

Hanna made a soft huffing noise, his jaw set in a scowl as he held the sheaf out in front of him, eyes scrunched up beneath their frames. He could hear the soft snip of the scissors as his companion cut through the tree's bindings.

"Toni and I trekked around the city for four hours. We went to every tree lot we could find in town, and a few out of town too. It took a while, but we were determined.. I was determined," there was a pause, stillness taking over the flat for seconds that felt equivalent to an eon before Elliot spoke again. "I was determined to make this a success. Operation Christmas, Hanna."

Time seemed to slow as Hanna's eyes opened and focussed on the crayon image his four-year-old self had drawn, absorbing the shape and height and colour before he let it slip from his hands, the thin leaf fluttering to the ground to rest at his feet as his attention shifted to the tableau unfolding infront of him. Stood next to his partner-in-crime stood a perfect replica of his drawing; it was as if somebody had plucked it from the page, shaken it up and breathed life into it before standing it up next to his friend. Hanna's electric blue eyes widened and he gasped, his hands flying to his mouth as he struggled to find the words; throat closing up with emotion.

Taking a run up, the man threw himself at the dead man, wrapping thin arms around his neck.

"Thank you, Galileo," he whispered, pressing his face to the man's chest. When Hanna looked up, a huge grin was plastered to his face, his eyes watering again. Antonio smiled back, his stronger arms encircling the shorter man's in a comforting embrace, and rested his cheek atop Hanna's head, the ginger curls tickling his skin.

"Merry Christmas, Hanna."


End file.
